


Rapprochement

by geekmama



Series: Molly Hooper, Girl Detective [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8300399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: The property was eminently homey and comfortable. Just the sort of place Molly would love.

  Well, too bad for her, Sherlock thought, grimly....





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Spade" prompt.
> 
>  
> 
> **********************************

Though St. Ives was a pretty little seaside resort, the property of Mrs. Helen Cecilia Byrd was set some way inland from the picturesque harbor and was of more substantial size than most. The house itself was moderate, a comfortable English cottage, built no more than a century before, grey stone trimmed in white, and meticulously maintained. There were white lace curtains in the windows, too, a brass knocker on the red-painted door, and a wisp of smoke rising in a leisurely manner from the chimney. The front garden was small and still replete with flowers, even this late in the season, but as Sherlock pulled up to the curb to park the car he’d “borrowed” from Mycroft, he caught a glimpse of a back garden that was both wide and deep. A very green and neatly mown lawn faded into a distant stand of trees, now touched with autumn color, and before these stood what appeared to be a number of beehives.

Eminently homey and comfortable. Just the sort of place Molly would love.

Well, too bad for her, Sherlock thought, grimly.

He got out of the car and, girding his loins (as it were), strode up the neat flagged path, mounted the steps, and knocked briskly on that cheery door. Instantly, the raucous yapping of a pack of diminutive dogs sounded from within, followed by the muffled clucking of an elderly woman, giving the little blighters a singularly ineffective scold as she approached. Sherlock winced as she opened the door, for the yapping increased to an excruciating level as the dogs -- overfed miniature spaniels of some sort -- raced out and surrounded him.

“Bloody hell,” he could not help hissing, though this was certainly not the way to recommend himself to Molly’s godmother.

Said godmother, a lady in her late seventies, with neatly coiffed grey hair, a flowered dress, pink cardigan, and a pinny, said apologetically. “Oh, I’m so sorry. _Pooh! Piglet!_ Stop that right now! _Fluffernut, get down!_ You’ll be shedding all over the gentleman’s trousers!”

The latter statement was soon seen to be no more than the truth, and by the time Mrs. Byrd had herded her charges back into the house, Sherlock had acquired a couple of paw prints as well, one of the wretched beasts having broken off to make a brief foray into the rain-soaked flowerbed before resuming its assault.

“I’m so very sorry,” Mrs. Byrd said, again, as she closed the door on them. “They really are very good, once they get to know you.”

“I’m sure they are,” Sherlock said, attempting to smile without gritting his teeth. “Are you Mrs. Byrd? I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, I thought you might be.” She gave Sherlock a look up and down, her eyes twinkling. “Molly has told me a great deal about you, you see.”

 _Molly._ Sherlock suddenly found himself somewhat short of breath. “Is Molly here?”

“Oh, yes, she’s in the back garden, spading a bit of my vegetable patch so we can plant the peas this afternoon. But… Mr. Holmes, are you quite well?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes. Fine.”

“You look a bit pale, but perhaps it’s the light, such a beautiful, sunny day, is it not? Molly was so happy the rain has stopped, and now with you here…” Mrs. Byrd looked a little conscious. “You… you _will_ be very good to her? She’s been… a trifle anxious about… things.”

Sherlock said nothing, but reached into his pocket, took out the small velvet box, and opened it for her.

Her reaction was all he could have wished. She gasped, and raised a face wreathed in smiles, her eyes glistening with sentimental tears. He could not refrain from smiling crookedly in return, and she sighed blissfully. “Oh, you are every bit as handsome as she told me!” Then, remembering herself, added, “Though handsome is as handsome does, as they say.”

Sherlock’s smile faded to a slight grimace.

But the little lady patted his arm comfortingly. “I’m sure you will behave just as you ought -- from now on, at least. Now you go around the side of the house, there’s a path, and I don’t believe it’s _too_ muddy. I’ll just go in and ready some tea things, for… for after. To celebrate!” She gave a firm nod, another smile, and went back into the house, squeezing through the door while bestowing additional fond admonitions on her over-enthused greeting committee.

Sherlock, feeling (and, sadly, looking) somewhat worse for wear, re-pocketed the ring, made his way back down the steps, and headed around the side of the house, as instructed. Unfortunately, he found that the path was rather muddier than Mrs. Byrd had predicted, and his expensive shoes began to sink in goo at every step. Then, when he’d nearly reached the back corner of the house, he slipped and nearly fell, though ultimately he managed to stay on his feet.

He was shaken, though. And tired (he’d barely slept for days).  Hungry, too -- the mere mention of tea had made him suddenly peckish, probably not surprising since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. And he was thoroughly disgusted with his appearance. Ordinarily he didn’t mind a little dirt, at least not in the course of The Work, but this was different. He’d hoped to more or less sweep Molly off her feet with his devastating good looks and charm of manner in this important confrontation, and obviously he’d hoped in vain. (Not that she wouldn’t see through such tricks, anyway; those days were long past.)

And yet, mere seconds later, finally emerging into the back garden and steadier ground, he knew that none of that mattered in the least.

She was standing in profile, twenty feet away, surveying a largish area of freshly spaded vegetable patch (and was such physical labor _wise_ in these circumstances?). She was dressed in jeans stained at the knees, a tatty old jumper of indeterminate color, mud-caked work boots, and filthy gardening gloves. Her hair was pulled back in its usual ponytail and she now reached up to wipe her forehead with the back of her wrist. Far cleaner than her gloved hands, it somehow left a smudge of dirt, anyway, and his lips twitched against a smile as he walked toward her.

And then she sensed him, turned fully toward him, and the spade dropped from her nerveless hand. “Sherlock!” She took one step, then remembered the gloves and halted, trying frantically to pull them off.

She’d only managed to remove one of them before he reached her, but he drew her roughly into his arms, heedless. For long moments they held each other, arms tight, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, his against her hair, bereft of words in their mutual relief.

Sherlock’s mind went skittering back to a dark time, when he’d been “dead” and alone in a bleak area of Eastern Europe and the memory of her, the knowledge that he was in her thoughts -- her prayers, pretty much saved his sanity. Sometimes she was the only unsullied thing he could remember in what seemed a mad world of mistrust and evil. She’d saved him yet again, so that he could finish the job he’d started, and he’d never told her. On his return she’d been engaged to Tom, and later, well... he hadn’t really thought of it in a long time. Perhaps...

But then he felt her trembling, and a small sob escaped her. “Molly, are you weeping _again?_ ”

She laughed through her tears, and pushed a little away. “No, not at all,” she said, stubbornly, looking up at him, her eyes warm, the tears on her cheeks belying her words. “Sherlock, how did you find me?”

“Never mind that.”  He took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Molly, if you ever go off like this again, leaving a _lying note_ , and _without your phone_ …” He took a deep breath, willing the surge of anger away since it would hardly serve him at this particular moment. “Well, rest assured, the consequences will be dire.”

“It _wasn’t_ ’ a lie!” she protested, though her mulish expression was riddled with guilt. “The sick friend was me. I needed some time, that’s all. I… _oh_ ….” She broke off, quickly blew her nose on an edge of the handkerchief, wiped her tears with the rest, then faced him squarely. “Sherlock--”

“I know. About the baby.”

She stared. “ _How?_ ”

“ _I knew before John and I left!”_ He ran a hand through his hair, trying for calm. _“_ It was obvious! The signs were there: fatigue, intermittent nausea, emotional instability, vaginal dryness, an increase in fullness and sensitivity of the breasts. And your period was late, of course.” She was blushing quite furiously, so he added, “You, of all people, know that’s what I do. Observation. Research. _Deduction._ ”

She laughed, rather hysterically. “Wh-why didn’t you tell me? Oh, my God! All this week… but I wasn’t even sure myself until you were gone and I went out and bought one of those tests. And then… well, I couldn’t imagine what you would say. Or no, actually I could. And did.” She looked up at him, uncertain and rather ashamed.

_Excellent._

Sherlock grabbed Molly’s still gloved hand, efficiently pulled off the offending article and threw it down with some distaste, then turned her and hustled her along toward a rather pretty and comfortable looking garden bench sitting some few feet beyond the vegetable patch.

“Sherlock, wh-what are you doing?” she stammered by way of protest.

“Taking you over here to sit down, of course. And what the devil are _you_ doing, spading such a large patch of earth in your condition?”

“My _condition?_ I’m not _ill!_ ”

“Nevertheless, are you quite certain that’s advisable? Granted, the statistics for miscarriage drop to ten percent or less after the first three weeks, but allowances must be made for your age, and mine for that matter. Have you spoken to your doctor?”

“Why would I? You wretch, I’m perfectly fine! And we are neither of us _that_ ancient, Mr. Consulting Detective.”

Having reached the bench, he now sat down upon it and pulled her onto his lap, saying, “Don’t get smart with me, Miss Hooper. You’re skating on very thin ice here.”

“It’s _Doctor_ Hooper,” she said, and kissed him.

Rather forcefully, and at length.

Her arms about his neck, her hand slipping up to rifle through the curls at the back of his head.

All this, and the feel of her in his arms, slim and strong and vital under the dirty, inconvenient clothing, did much to smooth his temper.

After, she laid her head against his shoulder, clinging.

And yes, he was clinging, too, to tell the truth.

Eventually, she said, softly, “You don’t mind, then?”

 _Oh, my God._ “Molly… I thought _you_ minded. When I saw the note you’d left, and couldn’t find you anywhere. I thought…”

She sat up and looked at him with dawning horror.

Sherlock said, rather defensively, “That’s what women… what people do. Isn’t it? When it’s an ‘inconvenience’, rather than a ‘baby’?”

An expression of grief clouded her face. “Yes. But how could you think _I_ would do such a thing? When I’ve loved you for so long?”

He sighed. “That’s what Mycroft said.”

She stiffened. “ _Mycroft?!_ ”

“He’s the one who told me where you’d gone, finally. Oh, don’t look so surprised. You know what he is.”

“Did he know why I’d come here?”

Sherlock laughed, rather mirthlessly. “He not only knew, he went to our parents’ to fetch this for me.” He drew the velvet-boxed ring from his pocket again and handed it to her. Astonished, she opened it, and he added, “It was my grandmother’s. He had it cleaned and the mountings tightened. Probably sized, too: Grand-mère was rather larger than you, built on queenly lines, as the saying goes. I’d already bought you a ring a few days before, when John and I were still out on the case, John helped me pick it out. But this one… I thought perhaps you’d prefer it.”

She looked up at him again. “Sherlock… are you asking me…”

“To marry. Me. Yes.” He peered at her suspiciously. “You don’t want me to go down on one knee or anything of that sort, do you?”

Her lips pursed against a smile.

“I mean, I can if you like,” he went on, “though the grass is damnably wet. But my trousers are already ruined, as you must have noticed. Your godmother’s wretched little dogs took care of that.”

“Was that the noise I heard earlier?” She laughed: amused, relieved, joyful. “Oh, Sherlock, no. But I wish I could have seen!” And she kissed him again.

He smiled, too, under the kiss, then took the velvet box from her, ending it. “Give me your hand, Dr. Hooper.” She did, and he slipped the ring on to sparkle in the sunlight. As expected, it fit perfectly. _Bloody Mycroft_ , he thought, but without much heat.

There were more kisses, a great deal of cuddling, soft words, more smiles: all the elements appropriate to such an occasion, and very enjoyable they were, too. But then, eventually, out of nowhere, Sherlock’s stomach gave an empty twinge and he was reminded of Mrs. Byrd’s preparations for tea. He cleared his throat, slightly, and said to _his fiance_ , “Shall we go in and tell your godmother?”

“Oh, yes!” said Molly, sitting up. “She’ll be so happy. But Sherlock…”

“Hmm?”

“I can still be _Molly Hooper, Girl Detective_?”

“No!” he exclaimed, admittedly without thinking.

The mulish expression made a speedy reappearance. “Why not? You know how good I’ve been, following your instructions, and I’ve learned so much!”

The first of many compromises, no doubt. “Very well.  But nothing over a four.”

“That’s absurd. Seven.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Six, and that’s final. And only when you’re with me. Otherwise _nothing over a four!_ ”

“Agreed,” she said, then spoiled it by adding, “For now.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered, wondering suddenly what he’d gotten himself into.

But she kissed him again, and said, “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

He sighed. “I know. And I love you, too -- God help me.”

  
  
~.~


End file.
